On a Wild Night (19 page)

“What?” She reached for her cloak.

“Our marriage.”

Balling up her stockings and garters, she stuffed them in her cloak pocket. “We're not getting married because of last night.”

He clenched his fists against the urge to shake some sense into her. “No—we're getting married because of the events that occurred
during
the past night.” His voice had risen to just short of a roar. “You're a damned lady—you're a Cynster, for God's sake!—and you spent the entire night in my house, in various beds. I realize I've been absent from the ton for a decade, but some things never change. Of course we're getting married!”

She stepped into her slippers. “No.”

“No?”

She looked up at him. Unshakeable feminine defiance blazed in her eyes. “If just one thought can penetrate that incredibly thick skull of yours, let it be this: we are not getting married because of some social stricture that decrees we should.”

“It doesn't decree we should—it decrees we
must!
”

“Hah!” Amanda hung on to her temper. “
You
won't tell anyone.
I
won't tell anyone. Why should the ton—or anyone else—be concerned?”

He looked magnificent in firelight. Squelching the thought, shackling her fury, using it as a shield to hide the whirlpool of her feelings, she glared at him. “Good night.”

She sidestepped quickly and rushed to the door.

“Amanda!”

Did he seriously think she'd stop? Flinging the door wide, she sailed through—into stygian gloom.

She paused, and heard his footsteps following hard on her heels. Stepping out, she headed in the direction she hoped led to the front door.

“Come back here, damn it! We have to talk.”

“Not on that subject.” Through the gloom she spied a railing—the gallery? She picked up her pace.

“You can't get out—the front door doesn't open.”

“Huh!” Did he think she'd believe that? Reaching the gallery, she was relieved to see the head of the staircase rising out of the shadows. He cursed, then she heard his footsteps
retreating. Refusing to consider what that might mean, she set her jaw and headed for the stairs.

Swearing under his breath, Martin raced back to his room. God only knew what she intended, but he could follow only so far without clothes.

He ransacked his dressing room. Shrugging into a hunting jacket and trousers, he strode into the corridor and set out in her wake. He crossed the gallery and headed down the stairs; gaining the last flight, he heard her—swearing at the locks on the front door. “I told you it didn't open.”

“Don't be ridiculous!” She rounded on him. “This is Park Lane, not the backstreets of Bombay! No self-respecting butler would allow a front door to rust shut.”

“I don't have a butler, self-respecting or otherwise.”

She stared at him. “You can't live here alone!”

“I have a man.”

“Just one?”

“He's more than enough.”

“Obviously not.” She gestured to the door. “I've undone the lower bolts—it's just that one that's stuck.” She pointed to the recalcitrant bolt, at head height, then looked at him. “Open it.”

Martin exhaled through his teeth. She seemed consumed by, driven by, some brittle, frenetic fluster; he wasn't game yet to tackle her. Best first to humor her. Raising his arm, he slammed his hand to the bolt, intending to demonstrate the futility of the measure.

Instead, the bolt caught, then slid, grating, across.

He nearly overbalanced.

“There!” With a vindicated nod, Amanda grasped the knob and hauled the door wide.

He grabbed the door to slam it shut before she could escape—it caught on the old runner and jammed.

Amanda slipped out into the night.

Cursing, Martin kicked the runner flat, then hurriedly followed her, dragging the untrustworthy door shut.

He caught up with her mere feet from the street, grasped her elbow. “Amanda—”

She twisted her arm free. “Don't you dare!”

He blinked at the sheer fury in her eyes. “Dare?” He'd already . . .

The memories rose up, a tidal wave of feelings urging him to simply seize her and be damned. Just grab her up, toss her over his shoulder and cart her back to his bed . . . closing his eyes, he clenched his jaw, held back the impulse. When he opened his eyes, she was heading through the gate.

“For God's sake!” Hands on his hips, he glared after her. Why the devil was she so furious? He wanted to marry her, had stated it perfectly clearly. Eyes narrowing, he set out in pursuit.

Head down, Amanda bit her lip and walked—stalked—homeward. Tried to ignore the odd twinges, the heavy warmth that even now lay just beneath her skin. Luckily, home wasn't far—a few blocks would bring her to Upper Brook Street. She tried to focus on her goal—on her bedroom, her bed.

Not his. The dolt!

Muttering imprecations, she fed her wrath; she couldn't afford to face the rest of her emotions, not with him hard on her heels. It must be two or three o'clock; London lay sleeping, the pavements empty. She wasn't averse to Martin—Dexter—following her, but she'd be damned if she'd discuss their putative marriage further, not until she'd had time to consider, to recall all that had happened, all she'd heard, to determine what was the best way forward.

To determine what tack she'd need to take to uncomplicate the matter he'd just done an excellent job of complicating.

He drew alongside her; she felt him glance at her face, felt the hardness in his gaze.

“Let me see if I understand this correctly.” His tone suggested great restraint. “You've had me in your sights from the first night we met. You've had one goal from the outset—to find your way to my bed. Now you've succeeded—and what? You're running home in a panic?”

They'd reached the corner of Upper Brook Street. She stopped, faced him, met his eyes with a belligerence as great as his. “I never intended to trap you into marriage.”

She didn't see him move, wasn't conscious of retreating, but she was suddenly backed against the corner house wall, caged.
A street flare lit his harsh features as he looked down at her.

“If not marriage, what, then?” His gaze raked her face. “What do you want of me?”

Heart thudding, she met his gaze fearlessly. “When I succeed in getting it, I promise you you'll know.”

She ducked under his arm, whisked around the corner and stalked to her home.

 

“I can't believe you've finally . . .” Perched on the end of Amanda's bed, Amelia gestured, round-eyed. “Was it truly a magnificent moment?”

“Yes.” Amanda swung on her heel and continued pacing. “At least,
I
thought so. Who knows what
he
thought. Or if he thought at all.”

Amelia frowned. “I thought you were sure he'd felt the same way.”

“I
was
sure.” At the time. Now, she wasn't so certain. Now, she couldn't recall why, sunk in his silken bed, awash on a sea of intense feelings, she'd felt so convinced she'd succeeded in trapping her lion in precisely the way she'd wished—not with any social contraints, but with the many-splendored ties of a true emotion.

She humphed. “Whatever the case, one way or another, he's not going to escape. We've played out the first hand, but we haven't reached the end of the game.”

 

The note wasn't unexpected. When she descended for dinner, their butler, Colthorpe, cleared his throat and discreetly offered his salver on which a folded square of parchment lay. She accepted it with a nod, tucked it into her reticule, then proceeded into the drawing room, into the throes of a family dinner, the prelude to two balls and a rout.

Exercising her willpower to the utmost, she didn't fish out the note until she returned to her bedchamber in the small hours of the morning.

After changing into her nightgown and brushing out her hair, she dismissed her maid, then, retrieving the note, she curled up in the chair by the fire and opened it.

As she'd anticipated, it was a summons to ride that morning.
She studied the bold, brash strokes, the sparse words that constituted nothing more than an outright order. She refolded the note. After a moment of staring into space, she glanced at the fire. One flick sent the note spinning into it.

She watched the flames rise and turn his summons to ash, then rose and went to her bed.

 

When the City's clocks struck five, he was waiting at the corner, no groom in sight. He sat his roan, the horse impatiently shifting, the mare saddled and held alongside.

Amanda watched him from the deserted nursery. The morning was grey, cool; the sun had yet to rise. She watched him wait as the shadows shortened, lightened, saw him turn aside as the sun topped the roofs.

She watched him wheel the horses and ride away.

Then she slipped downstairs to her bed.

 

She was going to have to be ruthless. She couldn't weaken and give in—couldn't meet with him again in the shadows. Couldn't return to his lair, nor yet to the underworld where he prowled.

If he truly wanted her . . .

If he did, if he felt for her half of what she felt for him, confused and peculiarly emotional though she was on that point, then he would follow her. Into her world, the world he'd turned his back on.

If he did . . .

“Are you ready?”

Pinning on a bright smile, Amanda swivelled on the dressing stool; Amelia stood by the door. “Yes.” Laying aside the brush she'd held for countless minutes past, she picked up her parasol. “Is Reggie here yet?”

“He's just arrived.”

 

Martin pulled his front door shut. Pausing on the porch, he looked across to the park. Carriages crowded the Avenue; the ton paraded on the lawns, the ladies' gowns a bouquet of colors shifting across the green, the gentlemen in their more sober attire providing contrast.

To promenade in the park of an afternoon was clearly still obligatory for members of the haut ton. The female members, at least.

It was a female member he wanted to see.

Descending the steps, he strode to his gates, then across Park Lane. Entering through a minor gate, he passed into the park, into the shadows thrown by the trees. Amanda, he felt sure, would be somewhere among the crowd, laughing, talking, smiling.

He wanted to see her—that was all. He didn't want to examine the reasons why. Absurd, that a man of his experience couldn't accept her desertion, couldn't chalk up the episode with mild regret, shrug and move on. Couldn't, despite her steadfast “No,” wash his hands of her and forget her.

It was precisely because he couldn't forget that he was here. He couldn't forget the sense of completion they'd shared, couldn't erase the sensual memory even though his factual memory was hazy over the entire interlude. He couldn't understand how it had happened, how the moment had slid so far out of his control. He didn't understand precisely
what
had happened, and he certainly didn't understand why it had ended so abruptly.

Why she'd run.

But she had; her subsequent actions had underscored her decision. She wanted no more of him.

Well and good. Jaw setting, he strode the lawns, circling the fashionable throng. His words echoed in his mind—mockingly. He thrust them aside.

It wasn't good, none of it. He'd felt like he'd found something inestimably precious—that he'd just discovered such a thing could exist—and she'd taken it, all chance of it, and herself, away.

Gritting his teeth, he halted under a tree, waited for his reaction to subside, at least enough to continue. His plan was simple. If he could see her, watch her long enough to convince himself she was happy and content, relieved to have done with him, then he'd accept his congé.

There would be no alternative. If he'd been wrong in his assessment of her—if he could convince himself she'd just
been intent on a dangerous liaison purely for the hell of it—then acceptance would come much more easily.

Stepping out, he continued his search. The Season proper was about to begin; the crowd was substantial enough to provide camouflage, yet not so dense he wouldn't be able to spot Amanda. The day was fine; a light breeze flirted with ribbons and curls.

Then he saw her.

She was walking with another girl who had to be her twin. Seen together, they were too much alike for it to be otherwise, yet they were not identical. Reggie Carmarthen was with them; her parasol up, shading her face, Amanda walked in the middle of the trio.

Sliding into the shadows of a nearby tree, Martin watched. The sister and Carmarthen were conversing freely, smiling and gesticulating. Whenever they turned to Amanda, she beamed, nodded, effervescently charming, even more so than her sister. She would throw in a word or two, then pause. As the other two took up the conversational reins, she'd look down.

The effervescent brightness would drain away; her expression haunted, reserved, she would walk quietly along until appealed to again.

Martin watched the transformation three times, then Amanda's sister, clearly aware, linked her arm in Amanda's. The golden heads dipped close; Reggie was nodding, his attention focused on Amanda.

They were trying to cheer her up.

Then Reggie pointed to a group ahead of them. Amanda looked, and shook her head. A discussion took place, then Amanda pointed to an empty bench set under a tree. The others argued, but she was adamant; waving them on to join the group they'd spotted, she retired to the bench and sat.

Amanda deployed her parasol to screen herself, not from the sun but from idle glances. She'd seized the chance for a moment of peace; the last thing she wanted was to be approached by anyone, especially not Percival Lytton-Smythe, who she'd glimpsed earlier.

She needed peace to think; the Season afforded her precious
little of that commodity. With the evening round of balls increasing, she had less and less time to herself, too little time to tend her increasingly tortured thoughts.